For Shawn

For Shawn

Sitting in the car

she breathed deep into his shirt

finding the smell of him.

And I saw her again as she was when I entered that room.

Sitting beside her son,

searching the body in the casket

for both a man, and a boy.

Leaning back in her seat, she says the tee shirt is new and clean,

the transition home must have provided him with it.

Plain black, but comfortable and of good quality.

At least he was dressed in a respectable way when he died.

In that room I take her hand and give her tissues,

and ask her to tell me about him.

I see the man before me,

but I experience the boy.

She cries, she laughs,

she remembers,

and though I never met him,

I remember with her.

Door open, face in the sun,

she takes the blue flannel from the bag.

This is the one she breathes.

She is pleased that her son was clean

and well cared for.

That when he died he had some dignity.

She tells me these things to keep her agony at bay.

Later she will hold them to her face

or wear them, or sleep with them,

saying goodbye to the man who used to be the boy.

I hug her in the room, in the car,

in the artificial light,

in the unfairly bright sun.

And when the room with a hundred hugs has become a parking lot with four, and soon to be only two,

and two short days later, only one,

and the big event is over,

there in will lie the pain.

But for now we hold her,

we bring her other son to her,

and then we drive away.

Instantly missing them all,

And wishing we could take the sorrow away with us,

and leave his family only joy.